When the Wind Dies

Feb 27 2020

Who knew

what they'd miss most

was a summer breeze,

the wind in their faces

tousling their hair.

That they'd miss moving freely;

unencumbered 
by stiff pneumatic suits,

unconfined
to sealed glass visors

re-breathing stale air

in a steel canister

in the vacuum of space.

Wind, felt but unseen,

and mysterious even to scientists

who know all about convection and pressure

and gradients of heat,

adiabatic effects

a butterfly's wing.

Who can explain the world

but cannot predict

why it came and where it went

or feel a breeze

describe how fresh.

Who can never be sure

of its beginning or end,

ineffable wind

invisible air.

And when the wind dies

there will be no corpse
left to decompose,

no deathbed repentance

confession of sins.

Only evidence

of overwhelming power.

You might have thought ice cream.

Or gazing out at sea

and breathing in its salty tang.

Or running down a forest path

in summer heat

with the sting of sweat in their eyes.

But no, it was the wind

they missed most.

Stepping outside, fully exposed

to the ocean of air

with all its currents, turbulence, tides.

Its temperamental violence

and heavy humid lulls.

Good With His Hands

Feb 24 2020

To know like the back of your hand

might have worked for my grandfather

who was good with his hands

and could fix almost anything,

gazing down, day after day

as they performed their labour

until he had them learned by heart.

Not quite muscle memory, but close,

the way each octopus arm

contains its own small brain

working unaware.

I remember his,
big hands
like an awkward farm-boy's.

Tough skin, worn to a shine

where big bulbous knuckles stuck up.

The mottled complexion

and strong tendons

and badly healed scars.

The bent and broken fingers

that recorded a lifetime of work.

And I am surprised to see how similar

my own hands are

at the age he was

when I knew him best.

Still, if called to task
I would never recognize the back of my hand.

Not in this digital world

where all I do is type, eyes on screen.

Where things are discarded, not fixed,

and we see the analog and manual

as impractical, somehow.

Or perhaps the hands of old men

all start to look the same.

And we look away, of course,

not wanting to be reminded of time

or the frailty of age.

His strong hands, where mine are weak.

His ability

and my dependency

on others to master and make.

I find myself occasionally using this expression, and each time comment to myself how absurd it is. Because I most definitely do not know the back of my hand. It may often be in front of my face, but it's one of those many things we see but don't observe.

It also strikes me that this may be as much a casualty of our era as a personal quirk. That we do not work with our hands. That manual labour is disrespected. That we are largely helpless and incapable.

And when I ruminate on the appearance of my hands, I notice things that remind me of my maternal grandfather. He emigrated from Russian. He was handy. He made his living with his hands. And they reflected this lifetime of experience. I imagine he knew the back of his hand very well indeed!

Perhaps we should retire this expression. Or perhaps it will live on, like many expressions that contain their historical origins but are no longer literally true: like “dialing” a phone number on a smart phone; or like reading the news”paper” that's no longer in print but on a screen; or like “pumping” gas when no one currently alive has ever actually pumped petrol as one would water from a well. Squeezing a lever at self-serve is strenuous enough!

Keeping Up

Feb 22 2020

I keep up with the news.

As if my civic duty

were to be informed.

Digesting events,

instead of penning op-eds
and doing the grunt work of politics,
picketing
and protesting

and knocking on doors.

So the world goes on

with or without me.

I observe, reason, judiciously weigh.

But see nothing change

despite my vigilance.

As the wise sage once said

if history doesn't repeat, at least it rhymes.

And I find this is so;

that the news isn't new at all, it's old.

Because what would you expect

of flawed humanity?

How we are riven
by belonging and blood.

How we are driven

by power and greed
pleasure and sex.

How the rich get richer

the poor even less.

But the death of a planet?

There are no precedents for this

no end in sight.

Nevertheless

I will diligently follow events

with my usual detachment

until their denouement,

saying I told you so, I saw it from the start.

The flaws of my kind
as well as my own.

Power and greed
pleasure and sex.

Passivity and sloth,

the pride

of self-righteousness.

“He seems to have drifted from online activism to couch-based complacency”

Fear of ...

Feb 16 2020

Fear of getting lost.

A feeling that still shadows you

after all these years.

Ever since that toddler wandered off

amidst a sea of legs,

a shy and anxious boy

reaching up

for the hand no longer there.

As well as of monsters

who hide out in closets

lurk under beds.

Then fear of missing out

fear of being uncool

the fear of losing friends.

Fear of love

fear of sex

embarrassment, regret.

But fear to be unloved, as well

or never loved again.

Fear of loss

and fear of God

and then of consequence.

Of disability

dependency

pain that doesn't end.

Fear of heartbreak

fear of change

fear of bringing shame.

Fear of losing everything

homeless and disgraced.

And not the fact of death, per se

but fear of the unknown.

Wondering if you'll pass alone

bitter, sad, enraged?

Or with your hand held

her arms cradling your head?

And will you take your last breath

with acceptance and grace,

with the wisdom, we're assured

that will come with age?

Or will you die hungry for air

anxious, and in pain

abandoned by your faith?

And will non-existence feel

as familiar as sleep,

the total absence

you take for granted

when you go to bed each night?

Or will it be how time must have passed

before you were born,

the resumption

of an eternity of nothingness

after the brief interruption of birth?

My life has been ruled by fear.

Despite having been told

that actions count, not words.

That I will conquer fear

by facing it

and that there's only fear itself.

Yet still find myself afraid

of monsters under beds,

still find my hand outstretched

to grasp at empty air.

This was a difficult poem to write.

I rarely get political in my poetry, which is understandable. Because poetry is far better at feelings and sensations than ideas and argument.

But it's pretty clear that I also rarely get personal. I may narrate a point of view, but there should be no doubt that I am assuming a persona, channelling a voice, not taking full ownership. Which must seem curious to readers, since many (most?) poets use their medium for exactly that: to express emotion, process personal experience, as a means of confession, and even as a form of therapy. It's all about the personal. It's all about exposure and vulnerability.

So in this poem, I've opened up more than usual. It was risky to write a poem on the theme of fear, because it does get personal. The key line in understanding this is “My life has been ruled by fear”, which is sadly far too true.

And I apologize for once again writing about death. But really, how can one write about fear without engaging with that great singular fear that hangs over all of us almost all of our lives? That part of the poem began as a couple of short lines. Because who doesn't understand and share that fear, and what more needs to be said? But then I couldn't help myself, and it became more of an essay than a poem, monopolizing two long stanzas that ended up sitting at the heart of the piece.

I'm amused by my use of the expression per se. I never use it in speech, so am surprised to see it immortalized on the page! It's an expression I generally intensely dislike. Because it's almost always used incorrectly. And because, even worse, it's often used as mere filler: a verbal tick, like the ubiquitous “like” or “ya know”. But here, it actually does some work: its meaning is preserved; and the rhyme it completes allows the preceding stanza to flow into the next.

That Good Tired

Feb 15 2020

Was it the smell of Windex

that brought me to my senses?

Caustic and chemical,

a clear sapphire blue

I imagine would be beautiful

in a high prairie sky

in a fresh-rinsed spring.

The moment I found myself

fiercely polishing the glass,

buffing hand-prints and grease

until my reflection looked back

in all its grimly focused clarity,

the fixed mouth

and determined eyes

of the man who avidly cleans.

Who finds it therapeutic

to wrest order from chaos

feel in control.

Cleanliness,

at least until the dust settles

and life resumes.

Until the monkey brain

starts chattering again,

hanging from that thin branch, high overhead

and chasing its long capricious tail.

Comforted

by the vacuum's white noise.

Calmed

by the wide-open floors

cleared of clutter and junk.

Toilet scrubbed,

a load of laundry sudsing up,

the dryer's soothing rumble.

Another day, I know

and it will be mostly undone.

But this, too

is reassuring in its way;

that life moves

in familiar circles,

doing, undoing

then doing again.

A thing you can see and touch

conclusively measure.

A job well done

the virtue of work.

That ammonia smell

leaving you slightly breathless,

that good tired

you've honestly earned.

I used to be much more of a clean freak, but fortunately age has mellowed me. Nevertheless, cleaning has its virtues, and not just the one of bringing you closer to godliness! It has a restorative power. Especially when things feel out of control, or you feel ineffective or lacking in agency.

And while much of what we do is ephemeral, or virtual, or hard to quantify, a clean and neat environment is one of the few things that produce a result you can see and touch and measure. And that gives immediate pleasure, as well.

So not a bad form of therapy, after all. Not to mention freely available any time, and at zero cost!

Consenting or Not

Feb 13 2020

In the doctor's waiting room

in a battered plastic chair

thumbing a vintage magazine,

National Geographic

a tattered House Beautiful.

Where I notice how old everyone is,

heavy-set ladies

chatting amiably

ample pocketbooks clasped in their hands,

stooped men

eyes drifting shut

canes across their laps.

And see myself as young,

in mid-life

even adolescent.

We all see ourselves this way,

arrested

at a convenient age,

oblivious

to the slow incremental change

we should have seen clearly mirrored back,

looking in low light

glasses off

when we bother to look at all.

But time is relentless,

and there will come a day when we find ourselves

reluctantly joining this club

we never wanted any part of,

one that seems eager for our membership

and has enrolled us automatically

consenting or not.

They are not yet my peers

but close enough.

All these old people

populating this waiting room

waiting for new hips and titanium knees.

Who are wearing down and wearing out

but doggedly soldier on.

Who are sure

they will soon dance again

race up the stairs

turn back the clock.

Who will renounce their membership

just as soon as the surgery's done.

Who knew from the start

they never really belonged.

Always

Feb 12 2020

The sign says Children at Play.

Earnest parents

warning drivers

on this quiet cul de sac.

As if the drunk and distracted

ever heeded signs.

But aren't children, always?

Isn't this their assignment in life;

to learn through play,

to have the luxury

of being irresponsible?

Historians say we invented childhood.

And later

adolescence, old age.

Ever since the Victorians,

when we started growing-up slower

became longer-lived.

But still, it's children, mostly
who play.

A snow-day, and they're out on the cul de sac

shooting balls at nets

playing tag.

A warning sign, a caution?

Or a statement of fact

which should have been obvious?

Classes cancelled, buses stalled.

And what could be more natural

than children at play

in the school without walls.

A while back I came across a website called Poetry 180 / a Poem a Day for American High Schools. It was sponsored by the Library of Congress, and in it former U.S. poet laureate Billy Collins (2001 – 2003) has selected 180 poems: a poem to be read daily “in order to make poetry an active part of the daily experience of American high school students.”

He wants them read; but most definitely not analyzed. As he notes in his introduction: “Hearing a poem every day, especially well-written, contemporary poems that students do not have to analyze, might convince students that poetry can be an understandable, painless, and even eye-opening part of their everyday experience.”

Today, I was searching about for some sort of inspiration, and thought I'd see if anything in the list of titles on this site sparked something. Slow Children at Play caught my eye. I read only the title. Later, after riffing on the subject myself, I went back and actually read it. The original poem's brilliance and whimsy come, of course, from ignoring the implied comma and reading the sign literally. While I took as my inspiration just the ...Children at Play part: which may have been far less imaginative, but at least led me to write something that was all my own.

Anyway, here's the poem.

And following it is a Billy Collins poem I very much admire, and which I include here because it helps explain why he admonishes his followers to simply read the poems, rather than analyze them: how being force-fed and formally schooled in poetry – making it work instead of play – destroys poetry for most people, and just when they're at an age to begin to appreciate it.

Slow Children at Play

All the quick children have gone inside, called
by their mothers to hurry-up-wash-your-hands
honey-dinner’s-getting-cold, just-wait-till-your-father-gets-home-
and only the slow children out on the lawns, marking off
paths between fireflies, making soft little sounds with their mouths,
ohs, that glow and go out and glow. And their slow mothers flickering,
pale in the dusk, watching them turn in the gentle air, watching them
twirling, their arms spread wide, thinking, These are my children, 
thinking, Where is their dinner? Where has their father gone?

—Cecilia Woloch

Introduction to Poetry

I ask them to take a poem

and hold it up to the light

like a colour slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem

and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room

and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski

across the surface of a poem

waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do

is tie the poem to a chair with rope

and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose

to find out what it really means.

—Billy Collins

Ravine

Feb 10 2020

In the secluded ravines

in this city of rivers

it might as well be wilderness.

Or at least a simulacrum

of untouched nature.

If I ignore the occasional light

visible through the trees

the faint hum of traffic,

imagine this path unplowed

its deep and trackless snow.

As we walk

the dogs have caught the scent of deer

and are porpoising through the drifts

with their usual frantic joy,

as if they'd know what to do

with a large wild ungulate

schooled in survival.

On a cloudless night

when the moon is full

and the air cold and still.

The ghostly lunar light,

white on white on snow

its shadows sharply cut.

I am surprised

at the height of the trees here,

as if this has always been a refuge

the loggers left untouched,

or a flood-prone valley

settlers prudently shunned.

It feels like a snow-globe

after its snow had settled out,

a perfect version of winter

beneath a crystal dome.

A place where all is still

except for us.

Who are also alone.

Not the alone of crowds

where you walk unseen

and unacknowledged.

But the alone where you feel exalted

and at one with your surroundings;

intruders

whose presence is welcome, for now

as long as they do not overstay

and leave things as they found them.

The dogs have returned to the path

where they are sniffing madly

at scents I could never detect.

They are wolves again,

an eager pack of two

following their noses.

Hungry deer

who are surely lying low.

Who followed this wilderness corridor

into the city's heart,

spooked by cars

confused by roads.

But whose instincts serve them well,

prey animals

wary of dogs

concealing themselves.

We have our usual walks. And, as a creature of habit, I'm generally content with that. But last night, I stumbled upon a whole new area of town that, surprisingly, is literally 5 minutes from my door. The dogs, who are excited by novelty, were thrilled. And I found it a beautiful night for a late walk: a clear sky, a full moon, and cold enough to feel energized, but with warm enough feet and hands. What a privileged feeling to find this wilderness, and to experience it alone, in the heart of the city. Especially on a winter night, when there is this quality of stillness that makes the place feel eternal; and your presence, somehow, slightly unreal.